


The Book of How to Grieve

by randomstorygenerator



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Grief, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, this fic is a few years old
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-27 00:39:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/972257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomstorygenerator/pseuds/randomstorygenerator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's nothing new. Grief, after all, is universal, but each process is unique.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Book of How to Grieve

**Author's Note:**

> The five stages are taken from the Kubler-Ross model. One line in this fic is taken from the song Homesick in Space Camp by Fall Out Boy. Warnings for mild discussions of depression, disordered eating, and alcoholism, among other things. If any of these trigger you, please proceed with care. 
> 
> This fic is a few years old - I posted it on ff.net a few weeks or so after Reichenbach aired - and I've been meaning to move it here for a while. Thank you to Mon for finally giving me the push <3

**I. Denial**

Make two cups of tea before you realize one is unnecessary. Refuse to throw it away - tell yourself, "What a waste of perfectly good tea." Let it sit there until it grows cold. Stare at it while it grows cold. Get up and watch telly. Try to deduce the ending. If you get it right, turn round with a triumphant grin and spot the cold tea. Let the smile fade. Walk over to the table and pick up the cup. Drink it down, but not before you feel like you're stealing. Let the tea settle uncomfortably in your stomach. Look at the time oh got to get to bed. Climb the stairs. Favor your left leg slightly (only he would ever notice).

Do it all over again tomorrow.

* * *

**II. Anger**

Clench your fists, let your nails dig into your palm let it hurt let it sting oh god let it  _bleed_. Tighten your jaw against the rage that threatens to flood out from between your teeth. Tell yourself  _don't scream don't scream don't scream_ but godfucking _damn_ it you have just found one of his  _shitting_ experiments fucking  _moldering_ at the bottom of the fridge and so help me god there is bloody  _green mold_ growing all over the inside of the  _slightly open_ ziplock bag and  _fuck it_ some of the damn stuff has spread to the outside of the plastic and you are _furious,_ this,  _this_ is the  _maddest_ you've ever been and you  _swear to god_ if you ever meet that  _bastard_ in heaven you will  _damn well bloody kill him all over again_ because how  _dare_ he throw himself off a building and  _make you watch it, to boot,_ without first  _cleaning up this fucking mess_ fucking  _arsehole_ and yes, while we're on the subject  _why throw himself off the roof in the first place?_ Shit cunting arse balls mother _fucker_ if he hadn't gone and jumped you wouldn't be here trying to clean up the damn fridge, god knows where you would be but  _not cleaning the damn fridge that is absolutely for fucking certain_ and goddamn you why did you have to die?  _Why?_ You bastard. You unfeeling  _bastard._ Pivot. Let one of his beakers smash against the far wall. Realize you've been muttering aloud all this time. Close your eyes in frustration. Slam the fridge door. Toss the green mold into the trash bin.

Try to deal with your fury for the rest of the day.

Fail.

Scream anyway.

* * *

 

**III. Bargaining**

On The Day It Happened, sit in the hospital and pray, over and over again, "Please, God, let him live." Say it like your life depends on it. Say it like  _his_ life depends on it, like every word from your lips is another second granted to his life. Say it like you'll gift him with centuries. Say it, just say it.

Remember this, the Day After. Smile tiredly. ( _My smile's an open wound without you._ ) Know that you lost, even before you began. If only you'd gotten there sooner. If only those people around him had listened - you'd  _said_ you were a doctor, didn't you? You'd  _said_ you were his friend. Why didn't they let you closer? You might have been able to save him - you'd saved far worse cases, back in Afghanistan. Compared to them, this one would have been  _easy._ God, if only you hadn't listened to him, if only you'd gone straight up to the roof when you saw him, if only that damn boy on that bicycle hadn't hit you, if only you'd stopped him, if only you'd said a proper goodbye. If only if only if only. Say this now. Say this like all the things you should and should not have done will turn the tide of time and bring him back to you.

Say it, just say it.

* * *

 

**IV. Depression**

Stop eating. Eat more. Don't sleep. Stay in bed till noon. Call Mike, call Greg, call Harry, plan a night out. Call at the last minute, say sorry, something came up, family problems, working late, sorry, so sorry. Don't tell them the truth.

Watch telly all day. Avoid the TV like the plague. Drink. Neglect the blog. Sleep too late, wake up too early. Struggle not to throw up every bite of food you swallow down (except chocolate biscuits, dear god he loved chocolate biscuits). Keep thinking that it all seems pointless. Say it aloud: "Nothing ever happens to me."

Consider moving out of Baker Street. Feel unsettled at this, think it strange - weren't you so eager to leave in the aftermath of the Day? Think nothing of it. Have difficulty breathing. Listen to Stamford when he says your limp is more pronounced than ever. Try to smile. Succeed - sort of.

Feel the blood in your veins like poison. Half-believe you're breathing smoke. Think, "My heart is broken", figure it to be true. Didn't the autopsy report say not a bone in his body was left whole? So yes, your heart is broken, well and truly broken. You watched him throw his life to the sky, after all, watched him forget he had wings, watched him  _surrender,_ and if the gods can surrender, what point is there left for mere dreaming mortals?

* * *

 

**V. Acceptance**

Sit by his tombstone and be almost disgustingly sentimental. Keep his plot the best-trimmed in the entire cemetery. Spend a fortune on cabs because you come here everyday and nothing less than a cab will do. Do this for two and a half years. Don't get tired of it. Tell him that he was only ever in your life for a couple of years or so, but you owe him so much, so damn much. Feel the pain of loss at odd times - in the shower, making tea, meeting Mycroft - and accept it. Miss him terribly, with a ferocity that eats you up at times, just burns you alive with the sheer force of it. Hurt in places you never thought you could. Dream of a black figure silhouetted against the sightless sky. Wake up screaming. Forget about it. Read on the internet about how the last stage of grief is acceptance.

Smile bitterly and look at the stale mug of tea in front of you. You made two, as per usual. Drink. Look at your laptop. Close it without shutting down properly. Go to bed. Think about acceptance, and how you'll never get there. After all, there are times when you turn around to tell someone on the couch something because you know _he'll_  find it funny, and  _you_  find the couch empty. There are times when, dozing off, you feel a hand jerk you awake ("We've got a case, John!") only to realize there is no one there. Rare times when you walk by a crime scene and you expect to see a tall man in black ducking under the tape. Become too numb to realize you're crying. Roll over.

Sleep.


End file.
